


The Terror

by adrabbler



Series: Historical Hetalia [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-16
Updated: 2014-08-16
Packaged: 2018-02-13 10:04:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2146635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adrabbler/pseuds/adrabbler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England and France during France's darkest times--the French Revolution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Terror

Each breath felt like fire in his lungs. He can't remember when he last felt this way. He can't remember if he ever felt death creep up on him so ominously as it does now. He had hoped, in the deeper recesses of his mind that his death might be a painless one, at least as a reward for his services to the Almighty God above. But alas, his incredibly sore muscles and tender skin would not give him respite from painful convulsions he was feeling. The world makes absolutely no sense at all.

God's sense of humour--that's what it was--to be done in by a revolution inspired by the one he helped to accomplish across the Atlantic. God was a cruel, cruel being.

Suddenly, light came flooding in the room, making the sharp pain in France's skull split it further. He squinted at the figure standing in his balcony with crusted bloodshot eyes.

"I had thought the angel of death has come to claim my immortal soul," France said weakly, his throat a little rough. "It seems he has sent a sea demon in his stead."

The said sea demon, who had donned on dirty French peasant clothes, came walked towards him, face full of cold disdain. The man stopped short by his bedside before wielding a dagger--naval dirk at that. How quite like him to risk being caught on the streets with a British naval dirk for the sake of killing France with an English blade.

"Make quick work of it," France muttered, closing his eyes, as he felt the blade touch his throat, waiting for death.

"If you don't shut the bloody fuck up, I'll cut off your tongue," England growled low.

"And what good would that do?" he continued, eyes still closed. "You've always enjoyed my screams."

To his surprise, he felt the blade move away from his throat.

"Angleterre?" France said, opening his eyes and looking at the man. The man was towering above him only looking at him with a blank expression, dagger safe at his side. At this, he felt anger boil within him. "I suggest you do it now before anyone sees you."

England leaned over him, hands on his pillow on either side of his head and face a few inches from his own. "And pass up the chance of seeing you die by the hands of your own people?" he sneered. "I should think not."

France clutched at his sheets. There was little else he could do, after all, with the state he was currently in.

"What did you come here for then?" he demanded, wishing for his old vigour to return so as not to sound so weak in front of England.

England smirked, took away the rosary from France's weak fingers, and walked towards his bedside table. "Isn't it obvious?"

"You've come to see me die? How sweet of you," France sneered. "I never would have thought that you would let vengeance slip through your fingers so easily."

"I figured," England said, examining France's precious rosary in the light, "it would be best to have you destroyed so thouroughly by the very virus you've created--at least just this once, hmmm? Perhaps then you'd think twice before meddling with others' affairs."

France exhaled carefully. So much for being put out of his misery sooner. "Ah but revolutions are in fashion, mon ami. And what am I if not the harbringer of fashion?"

England scoffed, pocketing the rosary and taking an apple from the basket on France's bedside. "A stupid man?"

France laughed at his own expense. "I'll have you know, the credit for the idea belongs to the boy alone."

"But it was you who've helped it succeed," England said, nonchalantly tossing the apple in the air and catching it. "Look where it's gotten you today. I did warn you about the economic implications, didn't I?"

Yes, he had, in the middle of trying to persuade him to abandon America's revolution. Who knew better about his already-troubling-then economic distress than England himself? England and his little spies. "It was worth it--just to see the look on your face," he replied, hoping that it was enough for the other man to kill him.

"Was it really?" England said in a mocking tone. "Here I am, standing beside you, still as healthy as can be with my thriving empire while you're in your deathbed, paralysed with pain."

France grit his teeth and did his best not to let it show.

His rival chuckled. "I had thought my proposal back then was a no-brainer--but alas! Apparently someone with no brains still can't see the advantages of a more reliable alliance."

"Reliable? You're about as reliable as a streetrat, Angleterre. You are called perfidious for a reason."

"And America was better?" the thick-browed man mocked.

France turned away from him. "He has apparently inherited some of your traits. Congratulations."

England merely smiled. "The boy clearly knows a role-model when he sees one."

He closed his eyes and swallowed dryly as he listened to England plop onto the ornate chair beside his bed and start peeling the apple. "I'm not hungry," he grumbled. Even though he hasn't eaten in days, he didn't think he can actually stomach any kind of food. Not in this state.

"I'm peeling it for myself, not for you, frog."

He breathed and savoured having company. It had been days before he had last seen anyone, in fear of being dragged out into the square and being beheaded. Despite the fact the he knew that England would willingly hand him over to the madmen without a second thought the minute they barge in and demand for him, his long-time rival had in fact unwittingly done him a small favour by being here to keep him company, at least until his last hours.

"And you would be all right with that?"

"Hmmmm?"

"That I die by their hands instead of yours?"

"As long as it's entertaining, I see no reason to object," England answered flippantly.

France opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. He moistened his lips. "I can feel it, you know."

"Feel what?" England asked, taking a bite of his apple. "Death? Despair? Your stupidity coming back to haunt you?"

"My sanity slipping away," he answered quietly, keeping his eyes trained on the ceiling.

England chortled. "As far as I've known you, you've never been right in the head."

France decided to let that remark pass. "Do you remember Francie Orientale?"

"Never met the poor sod."

"Ah yes, you haven't," France admonished, closing his eyes and turning to England. He looked at him. "Do you remember what I've told you about the circumstances of his death?"

At this, England's hand stilled, eyes narrowing at him. "What are you on about?"

France turned back to the ceiling and closed his eyes. "I can feel it. As if I were standing on a cliff, looking down. Only, there's nothing down there. Only a dark abyss." _And it frightens me_ , went unsaid.

"Please," England ridiculed him.

"It could happen to me too," France muttered, remembering the young man decaying in his deathbed, muttering and twitching. "He was my brother, after all."

"If you had been so weak, I would've been able to do away with you centuries ago," England said, returning to his apple.

"Francie Orientale used to be just as healthy," France commented.

"If I can't kill you permanently, no one can," England snapped. "It will be the end of the world before your people can beat me at killing you."

France laughed weakly. "Ah but what are we but fools at the mercy of men?" he mused. "Should they decide that France is no more, then I shall be no more."

"That's what you want, isn't it?" England snarled. France looked at him, seeing the other man glaring venomously, leaning a bit towards him in anger. "You want me to kill you while you're at your weakest so you can lord it over me once you come back to life."

That wasn't really what he was thinking, but he would have done so should it happen that way.

"I'm not going to give you that satisfaction," England snapped, plopping back on the seat. "I'll kill you when you return. I'm very well capable of striking you down while you're at your most powerful."

France chuckled at that. He would miss these days, assuming that there would be an after-life waiting for him. "I was being serious."

"As am I," the other retorted. "If you're to die for the last time, it shall be by my hands and no one else's."

"That's," France started and then paused and looked at his rival. "Very comforting to hear."

At this, England's cheeks reddened, but he said nothing, opting instead to pretend that he heard nothing.

Silence spread between them. It was maddening.

"Did I ever tell you how it felt like? When my people stormed le Bastille?"

England raised a brow at him, silent for once.

"It...was...incredible," he said, trying to find the words. "My heart, Paris...I felt the power surging through me as if God had touched me."

The other snorted. "I stand corrected, you _are_ insane."

France ignored him. "I had thought of it as my rebirth. I had thought I was reborn anew--stronger, more powerful." He inhaled a gulpful of air as he felt his chest contract. _More people going to the guillotine_. "I only started to notice my mistake after the massacres*."

"Only then? You should've realized it when the fishwives stormed Versailles."

He closed his eyes. Well, to be honest, he did enjoy it when that Austrian whore was forced out of her chateau. If only she were the only casualty. He gripped his sheets. He had thought at the time that this was the Enlightenment, just as Robespierre had promised him. After the massacres, after countless lives had been lost, both evil and innocent, he began to feel the decay inside his body. He had tried to warn Robespierre--Maximillien, of the danger he was causing to his own country, by putting this madness he so fittingly calls 'La Terreur' into place, but to no avail. Robespierre--the Incorruptible--had been corrupted.

"France?"

"What is it, Anglettere?"

"Oh, you're still alive. I thought you'd already died."

"If only," he mumbled.

He heard England stand up from his seat before a slice of apple was pushing against his lips. France opened his mouth and accepted it, if only because England would've forced it down his throat if he did otherwise.

"I thought you were peeling this for yourself?" France asked, chewing thoughtfully and looking at the other man standing beside him.

"I won't have you die before you're executed," England said, carving out another small piece of the fruit for France. "At the state you're in, it would take days for you to resurrect should you die now. I doubt your people, as insane as they are, would bother beheading a dead man."

"Your concern warms my heart," France says serenely, looking at England. Not for the first time, he means it, despite the fact that he knows England merely wants to see him beheaded.

There was a look on England's face, beyond his red cheeks, where he was hesitating whether to choke him with the apple or not, before the thick-browed man passively placed the apple segment on France's lips.

France accepted it again, this time with a smile. "If it's any consolation to you, I stumbled all throughout Paris in scum and shit on the way here."

"Hardly a consolation, but it will do for now," England muttered, busying himself with the fruit.

"It's true," France said, accepting his next apple segment. As Robespierre was legislating the Terror, France had already gone about making his escape with tremendous difficulty. Aside from his economic distress, the Austro-Prussian attack on his borders rendered him even weaker. It was almost a miracle that he was able to crawl his way to this hiding place.

"Where shall I be seeing you again?" England asked so quietly that France wasn't even sure that he wanted to be heard. Perhaps he didn't want to be heard at all, for that matter.

"How about Calais? I hear it's nice this year," France muses, watching the twitch of annoyance in England's massive brows. When the man doesn't give any further reaction (such a shame), he concedes. "Or London. Whichever is more convenient," France grunted. "If I even do come out of this alive."

England was silent, hand stilled, glaring at the fruit.

France sighed. "I suspect I would be back to pester you again within six months at the most."

"That's...quite a while."

"Well, excuse me if I'm not really that intent on being brutally murdered by you," France retorted hotly.

At this, England's lips broke into a smile, before he started laughing. Despite himself, France smiled. They would have continued had there not been the distinct sound of an angry mob coming closer to where they were.

"Oh, they're here!" England said, morbidly cheerful with a large grin on his face.

France bit the inside of his cheek. _It's too soon_. "Go."

"Oh I will," the other man said, making his way towards the balcony for his escape.

"Wait," France said, trying to sit up.

To his surprise, England stopped and turned around, giving him a quizzical look. "I'm not taking you with me."

"And I don't intend to go with you." It's not like he'd survive even if he were in a different place. France shakily sat up and panted. His body was weaker than he'd anticipated--if he gets tired from just sitting up. "This might be the very last time we see each other," he grunted, ignoring England rolling his eyes. "So before you go, may I have one last kiss?"

England scowled at him, although there was a furious blush forming undeniably on his cheeks. And to France's chagrin once again, England marches towards him.

Before France could even react, not that he can do much in his state, England forcefully grabbed his jaw. "You think to mock me," England said in a dangerous whisper, "while death is banging at your door?"

"I see no other way to go, mon ami," France said, struggling to breathe in England's death grip.

The next thing he knew, England's lips touch his--but it was too brief to savour it. England had distanced his mouth once more before his brain acknowledged what was going on. He stared openly at a smirking England, wide-eyed and cheeks flushed from something more than his fever, proving, in what France thinks is the final time, that the world makes absolutely no sense.

"That was hardly a kiss," he complained breathlessly.

"Then you'll have to come to London to claim the rest of it," he said, teeth bared and feral.

France looked into the other's green eyes--eyes that have brought him both terror and comfort in times of darkness. He felt boldness course through his veins again. "If I live to see that wretched city again."

The other man chortled and licked his lips. "Your true death is mine. You'll do well to remember that." There were already people banging at his bedroom door, hacking away at the wood with their crude instruments. England was running out of time. "It is my birthright. And I will make sure to claim it when I see fit." With that, he finally let go of France's jaw and let the sick man fall back onto his bed.

"Until then, put on a good show for me, will you?" England said, going back out the balcony and disappearing from sight.

"D'accord," France breathed with a smile as his bedroom door finally broke in half.

* * *

  
England watched from the rooftop as the French people dragged France's weak body to the guillotine. He was glad that they caught him sooner--the longer he stayed in Paris, the more danger there was not only for his own safety but for the poor excuse for diplomatic relations both countries still currently have (which, he is planning to break in a few days' time, mind you.). A living Englishman wandering about in Paris unharmed, would no doubt be seen as a threat. He quite liked the fact that these crazy peasants are more focused on Austria for a change.

He rested his cheek on his palm as he gazed at the spectacle leisurely. France's people were spitting at him, throwing various things at him as though he were some noble who has thoroughly wronged them. They dragged his beautiful whithering body through the dirty streets like a common criminal. How delicious.

England thought about what the frog had said. He wasn't there when East Francia had died but he's heard enough about him. The boy's death only bolstered the fact that France was too strong to die in the same way.

His people cut off his long hair with a blunt pair of scissors. _Such a shame--I've always liked his hair_. They then proceeded to tie his arms to his sides securely with a belt, dropped him unceremoniously on the bindings and locked him in place. One of them, a middle-aged man, recited his supposed crimes against the people of France.

 _How ironic_ , he mused. France is being accused of treason against his own self.

England drummed his fingers against his other arm. _Come on then. I don't have all day_.

Finally, the man stepped aside and the crowd cheered. It went all too quickly: the blade came rushing down on France's neck, chopping off his head effortlessly. The crowd cheered louder as his blood splattered on them. France's body slumped to the ground, dead.

England yawned, curling France's rosary in his hand. For some reason, it wasn't as entertaining as he'd thought. To think he'd spent so much effort searching high and low for France just to see him beheaded.

Oh well, he will have to remedy that the next time they meet.

**Author's Note:**

> This is another de-anon from the kink meme.


End file.
